


A Place for Peace

by demonkidpliz



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:42:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonkidpliz/pseuds/demonkidpliz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham finds out the true identity of the Chesapeake Ripper. After Dr. Lecter's escape and subsequent death, Abigail and Will try to piece their lives back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place for Peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dragonspawn](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dragonspawn).



> This is written from Will Graham's point of view. It is a story that takes the form of the ramblings of an old man. An old man, who, in his words, has lived for too long. Also, the context may seem a little AU, please keep in mind this was written before Roti and Releves.
> 
> This is, of course, a not-for-profit work of fiction. All characters belong to Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller and the NBC. I own nothing.

I remember everything so clearly. It’s surprising.

People associate me with a lot of different things.

Empathy.

Crazy.

Grieving.

Broken.

Clarity is not one of those things.

But I remember the overpowering smell of freshly heated chocolate fondue. The fading light of the winter sun seeping in through the single window in Dr. Lecter’s kitchen. I remember my head pounding. The smell of chocolate was so overpowering, I felt just a bit nauseous.

I remember looking at Dr. Lecter. Dressed impeccably, as usual, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his waistcoat buttoned down. The knife in his right hand. The muscles in his sinewed arm flexing as he tightened the grip on the handle.

I remember looking at his face, into his inscrutable, expressionless eyes, and just _realising_. I remember the awful, feeling, dread, and adrenaline rushing over me as I shut my eyes for just a second, hoping, praying, _willing_.

_Hannibal, do something. Smile. Shake your head. Look away. Do something, anything, to prove that I’m wrong and I swear I’ll never bring this up again. I’ll hide my sudden suspicion. I’ll ignore it and I’ll brush it under the carpet, like with every other thing I have done since I first met you. Like Abigail. And hiding her murder. Murders._

_Oh God. Abigail._

I remember pulling my gun out of my holster with shaking hands, and pointing it at his heart.

I remember his calm, expressionless voice telling me, consoling me, “It’s okay, Will. Put that away.” My headache was increasing in an ugly crescendo with every second. His left hand was splayed out in front of him, defensively. “Don’t make me hurt you, Will. _I don’t want to hurt you_.”

I remember the tears welling in my eyes, involuntarily. I remember, vaguely, mumbling incoherently, “It was you, it was you all along.” I remember shaking my head, as if I was trying to shake off this feeling. My hands were shaking too, but I gripped the gun tighter and forced it into aim again.

I remember at that exact moment, the kitchen door opening, and Abigail walking in.

“Abigail, NO!”

Dr. Lecter and my voice were drowned my Abigail’s scream, “Will! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

I remember her rushing in between Dr. Lecter and I, her back to Dr. Lecter, looking me with fear and accusation in her eyes.

“Abigail. Get out of the kitchen now.” I said in my trained, calm voice.

“Will. No. Whatever you are about to do. Don’t do it,” she protested.

“Abigail...”

I remember Dr. Lecter cutting me off with a sudden move. In a second he had Abigail’s armed pinned, the knife at her throat.

“Will. Drop the gun.”

My hands were shaking. My vision was clouded. My headache had escalated so much, I could barely hear him, or Abigail’s sobs. I could just hear my own head pounding. And my heart.

I remember telling myself to focus. I couldn’t do this again. Not with Dr. Lecter. I couldn’t shoot ten rounds hoping one of them would hit, with a knife cutting at Abigail’s throat at the same point her father had held it, before ripping it open.

_Oh God, Graham, get it together. This is going to Garrett Jacob Hobbs all over again._

“Will.” Abigail said. Her voice was steady. Her whimpers had faded away to a reckless determination. “Drop the gun. Do as he says.”

“No.” I said, motioning towards Dr. Lecter, “He’ll...”

“He won’t do anything. Hannibal is nothing like my father.”

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

I remember my grip on the revolver relaxing, as I lowered my arms.

“Hannibal. I am begging you. Don’t do this. This is Abigail. She’s our daughter. We have to protect her.”

My voice didn’t even sound like my voice. It was as if someone, or something else had taken over the responsibility of my body and was conducting it like a poorly rehearsed orchestra of limbs and vocal chords.

I remember lifting my eyes from Abigail’s face to Dr. Lecter’s, just as he pushed Abigail aside. I caught Abigail in my arms, her cheeks were wet with tears, as I saw him make his escape. I lifted the gun and shot a couple of times at the wall, where he had been seconds ago. Half-hearted attempts to convince Jack, and the FBI, but mostly myself, that I had tried to stop him.

I remember the gun dropping from my hand as I caught Abigail’s arm. She was attempting to run after him.

“Hannibal?”

“HANNIBAL!”

Her screams pierced the kitchen and pierced my head. I gripped both her arms and pinned them down, as she tried to struggle. “Hannibal,” she cried again before dissolving into sobs. I couldn’t see anything any more. Not even the top of her dark head. My eyes and face were wet with tears. My own tears.

I remember yanking Abigail down on the floor, as my knees hit the cold kitchen tiles, next to where my gun had already fallen. A cold, feverish sweat had broken over my forehead, and I closed my eyes and ignored my pounding head as I pressed my chin to the top of her head as she continued to cry.

…

I remember the day Hannibal died. Apparently it was soon after the great kitchen fiasco during which the Chesapeake Ripper escaped after threatening to kill an innocent eighteen year old while an FBI Special Agent looked on.

It felt like months, even years to me. And to Abigail.

I remember being alone with him, in the room. Jack would be getting reinforcements soon. I remember being glad that Abigail was somewhere safe and that she wouldn’t get in the way, this time.

“So what’s it going to be, Will? You try to kill me. I try to kill you. We both die. And Abigail is left an orphan, again?”

“Do you see any other option, Dr. Lecter?”

“You don’t try to kill me.”

“And let you escape again? I don’t think so.”

“You could not try to kill me. I spare your life and take mine. Everybody goes home happy.”

“No.” I said quietly.

“I didn’t hear that.”

“I said, ‘no’.”

“Why not?”

“Let me hand you over to the FBI. They’ll convict you. You don’t have to die.”

“I couldn’t do that, Will. To Abigail. Or to you. You deserve better. Both of you.”

“Please.”

I remember it being the last thing I said to him.

“Goodbye, Will. Promise me that you’ll take care of Abigail, and protect her in every way that I failed her.”

I didn’t respond.

“Will?”, he said, trying to seek my eyes out.

“I hope you found me interesting after all.”

I remember crawling to where his body had fallen. Still dressed in his neatly pressed, three-piece suit. I remember my fingers sliding over the lapel and gripping it tight. I remember sitting like that for what felt like hours. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.

The team arrived some time later. I remember one of them prying my cold, numb fingers from his body.

_Don’t._

_Leave me alone._

_He belongs with me and I with him. What am I to do without him? What about Abigail?_

_Abigail._

…

Abigail, it turned out, was better at handling herself than I had thought. After Dr. Lecter’s suicide, she left. I asked her if she wanted to return to Minnesota, but she balked at the idea. The memories of The Shrike were still too fresh for her. She couldn’t bear to stay in Baltimore any more, now that Hannibal was gone. I suggested she come to Virginia, with me. But she needed to get away. She needed to mourn the parents she had lost, in peace, away from everything. Away from Alana, and me.

She moved to California. She calls me often, and visits twice a year for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

She found someone. A guy named James. I had my reservations about her starting a normal life. But she did it anyway.

Abigail married James. They had a son. She named him Hans. Perhaps, after the father she had lost. The father who had not betrayed her, and had protected her till his dying breath. I don’t know. We never discussed it. When Hans was four, James filed for divorce. He wanted custody of Hans. Which he was readily given, given Abigail’s precedents. But she didn’t take it up to court. She saw him on weekends and holidays. And he would accompany his mother to visit me for Thanksgiving and Christmas on alternate years.

I tried to lead a normal life. I really did. I tried working with the Behavioural Analysis Unit at the FBI. I tried meeting with Alana a couple of times. But I couldn’t. Something in me had died that night, along with Dr. Lecter, and I just couldn’t be normal any more.

I was left alone, pretty much. To my teaching. And my dogs.

I felt like I had lived for too long. I was too old. I had never anticipated living this long, being who I was, doing what I did. Sometimes Abigail would crawl under the covers, like she used to when she was younger, accompanied by one of my strays who decided that the carpet in front of the fire was too cold, and sigh softly.

Hannibal’s absence had long since seeped into the silence between us. The loneliness grew into a dull ache that we smothered with our refusal to talk of it.

I wonder if she blames me for what happened. Did she blame Hannibal?

She deserved better. She deserved better than a man who was a serial killer, and a man who hunted them for a living.

I blame myself.

Hannibal believed in God, I know. I know he prayed. I wonder if he believed in heaven and hell. And I wondered where he was headed.

All I cared about at this point, as I shut my eyes and willed sleep to take over, that we will be in the same place, and that we will finally be at peace.

...

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Hannibal fanfic. Comments are very much welcome!


End file.
